


The Impartial Effects of Gravity

by Cascaper



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Futurefic, Hurricane of Puns, M/M, and the delightful authors that brought me to this ship, and the fandom, i would like to thank the academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 01:38:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17612993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cascaper/pseuds/Cascaper
Summary: In which it takes rather a lot of effort to get through to Emmanellain.





	The Impartial Effects of Gravity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nianeyna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nianeyna/gifts), [lilithqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithqueen/gifts).



Ordinarily, Emmanellain appreciated the cleverness that went into the puns Honoroit used to keep him on task. Honoroit was sharp as a dozen boxes’ worth of tacks, and worth his weight in gil besides; Emmanellain would happily have put up with hours of such jabs, the better to admire that rapier wit.

Honoroit was also long past his sapling days, having shot up overnight at some point in his nineteenth year and taken Emmanellain’s heart along for the ride… not that he would  _ever_ tell Honoroit this. Never. It wouldn’t be right, to put it mildly, and mild was how it had to stay lest the ache in his chest become even worse than it already was.

But lately, for whatever reason, Honoroit had taken to playing upon words beginning with ‘em.’ Hearing the first syllable of his own name in that dear voice, over and over, felt like pins being slowly pushed into Emmanellain’s gut. Beautifully made pins, to be sure, but pins all the same.

Oh, speak of the voidsent—here came Honoroit now, into the parlor, changing the cleared breakfast tray for one piled with papers, pen and ink.

“May I  _em_ phasize, my lord, that the replies to these letters need to go out before the morning does?”

Emmanellain groaned. “You may not. That was  _awful_ , my boy.”

“Mayhap,” Honoroit returned, “but still true. And if you do not get to writing, there are plenty more where that came from.”

Emmanellain duly dipped his quill and set it scratching down the page, wondering all the while if Honoroit was doing this on purpose. Could it be… did he  _know_? Had he guessed, Fury forbid, the tormented longings of his master’s heart? Was this his way of using the knowledge against Emmanellain, to tease, to drive him slowly insane as punishment for these unconscionable desires—?

“No.”

He did not realize he had spoken aloud til the sound of his scratching was interrupted by a faint cracking noise, which upon inspection turned out to have been the sound of the quill end snapping right off against the table.  

“Hm?” Honoroit paused in his progress toward the door. “Is that an  _em_ eute I hear?”

Emmanellain’s hand clenched for an instant on the hapless feather before he made himself release it, letting it fall where it would. Instead of answering, he snatched up the nearest pillow to hand and threw it across the room.

Where it hit Honoroit squarely in the head.

For one drawn-out, agonizing second, Emmanellain felt cold horror flooding his body. What a thing to have done—what a childish, petulant,  _stupid_  thing—he wanted to babble apologies, but his tongue lay frozen in his mouth. If Honoroit was determined to make puns on his wretched lord’s name for the rest of time, that was his right, but he hardly deserved to have anything thrown at him, with the possible exception of flowers—

At which point the selfsame pillow hit Emmanellain in the face. He caught it as it bounced off. 

“Beg pardon, my lord,” Honoroit said, sounding entirely unperturbed, “but if this is how you wish to communicate displeasure from now on, you cannot be surprised when I…  _em_ ulate you.”

Emmanellain felt a kind of insane glee spike through him. “Challenge accepted.”

* * *

There was no hope of working after that. Back and forth the pillows flew. For the first time, perhaps the only time in his life, Emmanellain was grateful for his mother’s taste in décor—as it provided a wide range of ammunition. Now if only the damn things were even slightly more aerodynamic; they kept going wide of the mark.

The mark, of course, kept popping out of cover to make another pun (“You’ll have to do better than that, my lord, you’re  _em_ barrassing yourself.”) before vanishing to safety once more. And he was smiling, with laughter shining in his (searing green) eyes, and Emmanellain could not find it in himself to be upset. Even when he was struck yet again.

Battle had been joined for perhaps forty-five minutes when someone opened the door, just in time to hear Honoroit declare, “You cannot best me, my lord; I have all the  _em_ broidered artillery over here, and you are left only with the un- _em_ bellished lot!”

“We’ll see about that!”

“I think, most  _em_ phatically, not!”

There was a cough; Emmanellain looked toward the sound and discovered none other than Artoirel peering in. Unfortunately, he had already wound up to throw, and the latest puffy projectile left his hand almost of its own accord to sail straight toward his unsuspecting brother…

For a mercy, it landed against the wall.

Artoirel’s eyes swept the room- from Emmanellain at one end, to Honoroit at the other, both of them behind barricades of couches and cushions. His face was unreadable. Emmanellain braced for the likely reactions: disappointment, disapproval, a roll of the eyes or a shake of the head.

Instead, Artoirel- the proper, the staid, the serious- bent down to retrieve the pillow at his feet.

And threw it  _back_.

Emmanellain, speechless now with disbelief, could only watch as his elder brother picked his way over to Honoroit’s camp.

“M-my lord?”

Artoirel settled down beside the younger man, as though he did this every day. “I do not know how this began, but I will gladly help you finish it.”

“Brother, don’t encourage him!” Emmanellain burst out, aghast. “He was already winning!”

“Too late, my lord!” Honoroit sang. “I am  _em_ boldened yet further!”

Artoirel honest-to-Fury  _chuckled_ , and Emmanellain knew he was doomed.

Between the pair of them, he was scarcely able to make a move. A positive hailstorm of pillows came rocketing over the edge of the barricade, preventing Emmanellain from putting so much as a finger out to return fire. In less than a minute, the war was won, and celebratory cries came muffled to his ears as he struggled to extricate himself from the debris.

When he had won his way free, he found that Artoirel had gone, and Honoroit was still laughing on the floor. But Emmanellain was not going to let this be the last of it yet.

“Ahem,” he announced, over the sounds of triumph. “I have come to parley with the winner.”

Honoroit sat up, wiping his eyes. “The victor recognizes his  _em_ bittered foe. Parley away.”

Emmanellain had been going to suggest a rematch, to finish as they had begun, but this final pun was the last straw. “The victor may retain his title if- and only if- he can find the holy grail in the depths of that pile.”

Those brilliant eyes narrowed up at him. “The grail, eh?”

“Yes.”

“In the depths, you say.”

“Yes.”

“Then why…” and his gaze settled on a point behind Emmanellain, “…is it right-  _here?”_

Honoroit lunged before Emmanellain could turn, seizing the ‘grail’- the single whippiest, firmest pillow- from below the couch forming the main wall of Emmanellain’s own fort. “Ha!”

“You still have to keep it!” and Emmanellain dove.

Laying hands on the pillow was easy. Wresting it from Honoroit’s grasp was not. All else was forgotten as they tussled, rolling around and over each other on the carpeted parlor floor, fighting for possession of the prize…

“Mine!” Emmanellain cried at last, and made to stand up. The carpet, however, had other ideas; it yanked his foot out from under him, sending him crashing right back down onto his knee and elbows.

And Honoroit.

All the air left Emmanellain’s lungs. Honoroit was so  _close_ \- his face mere ilms away; Emmanellain could feel the warmth of his startled, shallow breaths, could practically count the freckles dusting his cheeks and nose. Could smell, oddly, the faint whiff of toast. Was it really still morning? Was time even passing at all? 

Emmanellain thought he might be turning to stone on the spot, for he did not dare move. If he moved, their lips might touch, and if their lips touched, Honoroit would leave and never come back. And Emmanellain would be left with naught to do but die.

There was still a way to save this. There had to be.

“I…” he started.

“Yes?”

“I…” He couldn’t think. The words wouldn’t come. 

“You… are squashing me,” Honoroit supplied. 

That broke the spell. Emmanellain got his other knee under him and started to push off from the ground. 

Only to find himself stopped by a grip on his collar.

Emmanellain had half a second to be confused, and then his brain short-circuited entirely as Honoroit pulled him into a kiss.

Once again, all the world went away, but this time it left Emmanellain floating in a haze of  _warm_ and  _soft_  and  _Honoroit._ Honoroit’s arms slid around his back, Honoroit’s fingers slipped up into his hair, and Emmanellain felt himself melting—which no doubt accounted for the way his mouth seemed helpless to do aught but open against the press of Honoroit’s lips, or the way his own fingers dug into the carpet, desperate to ground himself before he lost all contact with reality.

_Dream. This is a dream_ , came a single coherent thought. Then he gave up trying to think at all, because he was being pulled closer, because Honoroit was absolutely ravishing his lips and bunching his shirt all up in the hand that wasn’t occupied with his hair, mumbling “Emmanellain” in between kisses as if to make his heart stop for good and all.

Stop. Stop. They should… someone might… Emmanellain broke free, gasping, and covered the pause by pulling the pillow out from where it had been trapped between them. “Wha… what is  _happening_?” he panted.

Honoroit’s own dazed expression rapidly resolved into amusement. “We were kissing. Embracing, even.”

Emmanellain shook his head, vainly trying to clear the haze. “Well yes, but how—”

“Like this,” and Honoroit reached up, ready to pull him down again, but this time Emmanellain was not going to collapse so easily.

“Honoroit, please, wait just a moment, I… this doesn’t make any sense. — _No_ , don’t look like that!” because the dear scarred brow was threatening to furrow, “I mean, it’s amazing, you’re amazing, but I never thought that you… you would… And the puns! Fury’s sake, Honoroit, I was having a hard enough time with the puns before you went and started k-kissing—oh, I give up, what is going on!?”

Honoroit lay there below him, smiling a great fond smile, and shaking his head. “If you don’t know by now, my love, I fear you never shall.”

“Now see here,” Emmanellain began hotly, “I—wait, what did you just say?”

“I said, if you don’t know-”

“No, I meant, what did you call me?”

The smile grew that much brighter, even as Honoroit’s voice softened. “My love _._ ”

“…Oh,” was all Emmanellain could say at first, and then, “ _Oh._ Oh, say that again.” 

“My love.” 

“And again?” 

“My love,” and his smile was in his voice. 

“Once more? I think the singular thickness of my skull prevents my understanding such tender impossibilities and—”  He was cut off by another kiss.

* * *

“I should have known it would take an act of fate and Halone to get you to fall into my arms,” Honoroit told him, eventually. 

“And gravity.”

“Amen to that.” 


End file.
